Has Been
by SaintDogStreet
Summary: AU. As much as Sam loved his girlfriend, he really, really wished she had just stayed dead. A story of love, grief, and zombies. Hurt!Limp!Sam and Hurt!Protective!Dean.


**Summary: AU. As much as Sam loved his girlfriend, he really, really wished she had just stayed dead. A story of love, grief, and zombies. Hurt!Limp!Sam and Hurt!Protective!Dean. **

**Warnings: Violence, profanity, possible disturbing imagery.  
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**A/N: So, I started writing this thing like a year ago. I had so much trouble with it I scrapped it, started over again, still couldn't make it work, scrapped that, started over _again_, and finally after a few more tries threw in the towel completely. I have since Frankensteined bits of it into other fics, so bear with me if you start having weird feelings of deja vu. Anyways, since I just disinterred this version and thought it wasn't half-bad, I'm going to give it one more shot, post what I've got, and hopefully finish it up. Let's see how it goes. But enough about me, let's get onto the zombies!  
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**Enjoy:**

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**_Prologue_

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"You'll pay for this!" Hammond snarled, dark hair falling in his eyes. Sam pressed the knife deeper into the skin of his throat. "There are others out there like me! There are too many of us for you to defeat! My coven will have its revenge! You'll be sorry!"

"Stop shouting," Sam snarled. "My god, you're giving me a headache."

"Vengeance will be brought down upon your foul ugly stupid head! They will come down upon you like eagles! Like rabid wolves! Like, like, praying mantises!" The warlock's voice rose to a shrill pitch. "You will die choking on your own blood, strangled in your own intestines! Or maybe somebody else's intestines. But there will be strangling involved! The very bowels of hell will open up beneath you and you will fall into the fiery pits of doom and fire! You will burn! And bleed! And die! Not necessarily in that order! You will suffer like the dog you are. You will plead for mercy, snivelling like the pathetic douchebag you are, but mercy will not come! Your fingernails will be plucked out with pliers, your eyes popped with rusty nails, your tongue shredded with a cheese-grater. You will -"

_"Shut up!"_ Sam growled, jerking the shrieking man. "Goddammit, tell me where my brother is."

"Well, I can't do both, can I?" Hammond asked sullenly. Sam glared and his knife drew blood. The warlock winced.

"My coven will hunt you down and exterminate you like cockroaches beneath its feet," He proclaimed. "You will be fed to rats piece by piece. You will die screaming and writhing and begging. We will have our revenge. We will take what you love, and turn it against you. You're going to regret this."

"Alright, fine." Sam hissed. "That's all well and good. But if you don't tell me where my brother is _right now_, all those things you just said? You're going to _wish_ that's what was happening to you. Got it?"

Hammond sneered. "Bite me."

Sam drew his fist back and hit him. There was a soggy crunch as Hammond's nose broke beneath Sam's fist. He gave a high-pitched scream, flailing beneath Sam.

"Alribe, alribe, you win! He's in da addic." Hammond wheezed shrilly.

Sam craned his neck up. The faint outline of a trapdoor was on the ceiling above him.

"Now that wasn't so difficult to do, right?" He said in exasperation. Hammond glared, thick blood flowing down his face.

Sam climbed off of the warlock, brushing the dirt off his knees as he stood. Hammond clamored shakily to his feet. Sam brandished the knife at him threateningly. "I'm going to go get my brother. You're going to stay here and not do anything stupid. Got that?"

Hammond rolled his eyes, hands cupped around his bleeding nose. "Oh, yeahb?" He asked.

"Yep," Sam affirmed cheerily. He slammed the hilt of his knife into Hammond's skull. The warlock crumpled, falling to a heap on the ground. Eddies of dust puffed up around him. Quickly, Sam bound his hands and feet with the pull-cords from the curtain.

It was a good thing he was so tall, he thought, as he strained to unlatch the trap-door. There was a snick as it swung downwards and a rope-ladder unrolled, falling neatly in front of him. Sam tugged it to test its strength before beginning his ascent.

He climbed out of the trap-door opening gun first, scanning around.

It took his eyes a moment to adjust to the dim lighting in the attic.

"Dean?" He called. There was a muffled thump from somewhere in front of him. Gazing into the darkness, Sam could make out a sliver of light. He walked towards it, feeling the soft edges of a cloth tacked around what he assumed was a window. Sam gave it a tug, and the cloth pulled away, allowing yellow light to flood the room. The attic was built of rough pale wood and dust floated in the light like snowflakes.

In the middle the room was Dean.

His older brother was glaring at him. Dean was duct-taped to a chair, looking decidedly disgruntled. Sam holstered his gun and approached quickly, then tore the strip of duct-tape off of his brother's mouth.

"Took you long enough," Dean grumbled. "You and Gandalf stop to have a nice chat and discuss the weather?"

"Something like that," Sam agreed. He carefully slit Dean's bindings with his knife, wincing sympathetically as Dean rubbed his wrists.

"You okay?" He asked seriously, scanning his brother. There was a trail of congealed blood winding down from Dean's hairline, but other than that he looked alright.

"I'm fine," Dean said shortly. "You?"

"Yep," Sam confirmed. Dean studied him for a moment and then nodded.

"Okay then, where's Sabrina?" Dean asked.

"Downstairs." Sam indicated with a jerk of his head. "Shall we go finish this?"

"Oh yeah," Dean agreed. "You think _Practical Magic_ down there has learned his lesson?"

Sam shrugged. "I dunno. Doesn't really seem like it. He's not exactly the picture of remorse. . . And he mentioned his coven."

His older brother wrinkled his nose. "Great."

Sam hesitated. "It's not like we can just kill him, he's just a guy. And he hasn't hurt anybody. . ." He trailed off.

"Yet." Dean pointed-out.

Sam nodded. "Yet."

Dean sighed, scrubbing his face with one hand. "Okay, well, we'll get rid of any hocus-pocus stuff he has and have a nice long chat with him about the dangerous consequences of practicing black magic. Namely us. If that doesn't get through his witchy little brain then we'll give the 5-0 a tip-off about a dangerous and unstable individual and see where we can go from there."

"Alright," Sam said.

"Fantastic," Dean clapped his hands together. "Show-time."

Sam gave Dean his extra gun and Dean climbed down the rope ladder ahead of him. Sam watched him disappear and heard the dull thump of his landing.

"Hey, Sam!" His brother called up after a moment's silence. "I thought you said Harry Potter was down here?"

_Oh, shit._

Sam swung himself down onto the ladder. "Dean!" He called out urgently. "Watch out!"

What he was about to do was going to hurt like a bitch, but Sam didn't hesitate. He loosened his grip on the ladder and let the rope slither through his hands, sliding down swiftly. Palms burning, Sam landed on his feet and spun around, gun drawn.

The room was empty -- Hammond was gone. Sam met Dean's eyes.

The brothers waited in silence. After a while, Dean broke the stillness.

"Maybe he's run off--" Dean began.

Something slammed into Sam's side, knocking him into the wall. Dean fired.

Hammond's hands wrapped around Sam's throat, slamming him into the wall again. Shooting stars and New Year's Eve sparklers flickered brightly across Sam's vision.

There was an animal skin with golden fur wrapped around Hammond's shoulders. The bullets ricocheted off of it and made a dull clinking sound as they hit the floor.

"Sammy!" Dean called. Hammond blocked his vision, and Sam couldn't see his brother until a familiar hand wrapped around Hammond's shoulder and yanked the warlock off of him.

"You bastard," Dean growled, jamming the gun into Hammond's throat. Sam slid down the wall, panting.

"Death and suffering upon both of you!" Hammond cried. Blood had congealed down his lips and chin, thick and dark and eerie. Dean's gaze was dark. He drew the hammer back on his gun.

"Worms will eat your flesh and crows will pluck out your eyes before morning comes!" Hammond promised. "Alley-cats will rip apart your skin and flies will leave nothing but your bones! And your bones will turn to ash, and acid rain will fall from the stormy sky and turn your ashes to mud! You will die in pain and agony and even in death no one will remember you!"

"My god, you must be the life of the party," Dean said in exasperation. "Is he always like this?" He looked to Sam for confirmation.

Sam looked up from where he was sitting on the ground, regaining his breath, and nodded. Dean snorted. Before he could continue, Hammond cut him off.

"My coven will avenge me. They will chase you down and run you into the ground. They will bring such misery as you could never imagine upon you. They will destroy everything you ever loved and break your hearts and minds and spirits and spit on your graves. They will ruin you in my name." The irate warlock promised.

"Yeah, yeah," Dean said. "Pain and suffering. Got it." Sam slowly climbed to his feet.

Hammond spluttered like an angry cat. "My coven is great! Far more powerful than you could ever hope to be. We will rain unholy hell down upon you. There is no hope for you! We are dark and terrible! We are like angels, like devils, among men! We are --"

Dean tutted. "Sounds like _somebody's_ breaking the first two rules of Witch Club."

"You foolish miserable pile of shit!" Hammond screamed.

"Look, Hammie," Dean said in annoyance. "My brother and I just wanted to come down here and talk things out, and you had to go all psycho on us. C'mon. Let's be reasonable."

"I do not talk with _dogs_!" Hammond huffed.

"Oh, come on," Dean said. "That's just not nice."

"You are _nothing!_" Hammond hissed.

Sam saw light reflecting off of a blade as Hammond suddenly moved. Before Sam could react the warlock plunged a knife into his brother's stomach.

_"Dean!_" Sam cried. Instinctively, Dean's fingers squeezed the trigger, but the bullet went wide, Hammond's hair ruffling as it zoomed past his head.

Dean's eyes were wide and surprised and one hand reached down to his stomach, blood slipping over his fingers. He slid to his knees.

Sam charged. He slammed into Hammond, knocking him to the floor, and the two of them went skidding across the ground.

He gave a wordless cry as he slammed the butt of his gun into the side of Hammond's face. Hammond's head snapped around, slamming into the wood floor. The warlock gave a hoarse laugh, fumbling with the knife still clenched in his hands.

"I'd ask you to give me a reason, just give me one reason," Sam whispered, barrel of the gun pitting Hammond's skin as he shoved it into the warlock's cheek. Hammond's hands were pinned beneath him, and Sam could feel the sharp edge of the knife cutting into his abdomen as Hammond struggled to stab him. "But you already did."

"You are going to regret this, Sam Winchester. You are going to suffer." Hammond whispered, dark eyes promising. The knife cut deeper.

"Okay," Sam agreed.

He squeezed the trigger.

Hammond jerked beneath him as the bullet tunneled through skin and skull and brain. Blood welled up in the hole in his cheek. His eyes stared dimly at Sam.

Sam rolled off of the warlock's corpse, holstering his gun. He made his way over to his brother.

"Dean?" Sam asked, crouching down beside him.

"Hey, Sammy," Dean answered softly. His hands were clamped tightly over his stomach, fingers discolored with red. "You get the ugly bastard?"

"Yeah," Sam answered. He shrugged out of his jacket and rolled it into a ball. Gently, he tugged at Dean's hands, pulling them away from the wound. Sam examined it for a moment before pressing the jacket to it. Dean gave a small hiss.

"Sorry," Sam apologized.

"S'okay," Dean whispered.

"Think you can stand?" Sam asked carefully. Dean nodded. Cautiously, Sam helped his older brother up, keeping pressure on the wound. Dean leaned heavily against him for a moment before struggling to straighten up.

"Take it easy, you moron," Sam admonished. Dean shrugged and then grimaced.

"It's not that bad."

Sam snorted. "Yeah. We got to get you to a hospital."

"Seriously, Sam," Dean insisted. "I'll be fine."

"_Seriously_, Dean," Sam retorted. "You're going to a hospital."

"A few stitches, a hot shower, I'll be fine." Dean protested.

"Hospital." Sam said shortly.

"We've got to deal with all this, still," Dean gestured with his chin.

Sam grunted. "I'll come back and handle it."

"Oh, come on. .. " Dean pleaded.

"No."

"Sammy. . ."

"No."

"Since when do you get to make all the decisions?" Dean pouted.

"Since you forgot how to dodge." Sam retorted.

"Ouch. Harsh, bro."

"Try not to get stabbed again." Sam said blandly.

Dean huffed. "Yeah, yeah, keep it up."

"Oh, I will," Sam promised. "How are you feeling?"

"A bit like one of those little barbequed shrimps. Shish-kabobed." Dean panted.

"Almost there," They stepped out into the sunlight, squinting. The sky was a clear bright blue stretching above them, not a cloud in it. Slowly, the duo made there way to the Impala.

"I bet you think this means you get to drive," Dean groused.

"Uh-huh," Sam said, easing him into the passenger seat.

"Don't get used to it," He sniffed. There was a pause, and Dean turned questioningly to look up at his brother leaning in the car doorway. Sam was looking at him poignantly.

"I won't." He said softly.

Dean could've said Sam was being a girl, he could've said enough of the chick flick moments, he could've said lighten up. But he didn't.

"Good," He said.

* * *

Manx stepped around the headstones carefully. The cemetery smelled sharp and earthy after a day of rain. The night was dark, the stars shrouded with clouds and the filmy light of the moon barely noticeable. Manx left no footsteps in the thick grass as he walked. His hooded followers trailed behind him like ducklings.

Finally Manx paused, crouching in front of a granite tombstone. He traced the name carved onto the cold gray stone with one finger. Beads of water had pooled on the salt-and-pepper surface, and the stone was slick. He smiled.

Dead flowers were piled on top of the grave, roses and lilies and marigolds. Their dried and brittle petals shed like snakeskin as Manx nudged the bouquets with his foot. He straightened up, turning to his followers. They had formed a loose semi-circle around him and the grave, hooded faces bowed.

There were eleven of them. Twelve, if Manx counted himself. They were one number short.

The eleven magicians began to move, pulling out black candles and setting them atop of the headstones, lighting them with a brush of their fingers. The graveyard flickered in the candlelight.

Manx flung a handful of herbs on the grave, willow and yew and parsley. He breathed in the heady scent of them on the wind, satisfied.

He turned to his followers.

"Friends," He began softly. "Hammond is dead. Our brother has been killed. We are here to bring vengeance upon his killer. He will be punished for what he has done. He will _suffer._"

He stepped sideways off of the grave, and two warlocks approached bearing shovels. He gave them a nod, and they began to dig.

The grave dirt piled high next to the tombstone, and Manx took a handful of the dark, damp loam. He let it run through his fingers, falling to the ground gently in flurries.

The warlocks finished digging, wiping the sweat from their faces beneath their hoods. A few more followers stepped up to help them haul the coffin out of the disinterred grave.

The glossy wood of the coffin shone in the guttering candlelight, shadows and silhouettes dancing across its surface. Manx rested a hand lightly on its surface. It was cold and wet.

He held out his hand like a doctor waiting for a scalpel, and one of his followers obligingly placed a large bottle in it. Manx uncapped it with his teeth and poured the contents over the casket. Dark red blood spilled thickly over the wood, dripping down the sides to soak into the wet earth below. Hammond's blood.

"Come here," Manx commanded to the coven, crooking a finger. They walked hesitantly but obediently towards him, flanking the coffin.

Manx pulled a knife out from beneath his robes. It was a crooked thing with a gleaming dark blade and a tarnished handle emblazoned with crows. On it, the Winchester brothers' blood had dried into a wine-red crust.

With the dirty knife, Manx carefully slit his wrist. There was a flare of fiery hotsharphurt and he began to bleed, dripping sluggishly onto the coffin lid, splattering Hammond's own blood.

One by one, his coven held out their wrists for him, and he sliced them all once, deeply. Their blood spilled.

"_Excito_," Manx commanded in Latin. He began to chant, and his followers joined in.

The spell had taken a long time. Manx had taken it up years ago, in anticipation of vengeance that must be fulfilled. If he was honest with himself, he was more than a little excited Hammond's death had finally given him reason to complete it. It was filled with promises from demons and human sacrifice and ancient magic written in spidery calligraphy in crumbling tombs that burned the eyes to read. It was old and dark and his spine had been crawling for the last few months as he finished preparing it. It all came to a head tonight.

Black wax had run down from the candles to coat the granite headstones in long drops and drips. The trees shivered in the wind. Crows began to alight on the branches, cawing hoarsely. The clouds parted around the moon, and silver light shone down on the sticky mess of blood.

Voice began to cry, and then scream. They came from below the witches' feet, shrill and otherworldly, filled with pain. Manx and his followers' voices rose, the chanting harsh and commanding.

Lightning forked across the sky in tandem with a crash of thunder that shook the ground. The graveyard was lit in white and blue and silver for a split-second, and the world was suddenly pale and colourless, like a Polaroid left out in the sun for too long. Then it was gone, and the world was black -- deep, dark, endless black.

All the candles went out.

In the darkness, Manx could hear scratching. The voices had stopped their anguished screaming, and the scratch-scratch-scratch echoed like gunshots in the stillness. The hesitant sound, like rats rustling in the walls, grew into a symphony of clawing and thumping.

Slowly, his eyes adjusted to the dark. Clouds had passed back over the moon, but the world was no longer the impenetrable black it had been. The night was no darker than it normally was.

He glanced up into the branches of the twisted trees. The crows were still there, watching silently. Waiting.

Manx turned to look at the coffin. The thumping continued.

His followers were staring at him, fear evident in their shadowed eyes. Good. They should be scared.

"Hey!" A muffled voice called. "I'm awake! Oh, god, I'm awake. Let me out!"

Manx smiled.

"I'm not dead. Oh, Jesus, I'm not." The voice had a frantic quality now, the pounding hurried. "Oh, fuck, I'm not dead. I'm not fucking dead! Let me out! Let me out! Let me out!"

Manx obliged.

Carefully, he lifted the coffin lid, hands wet and tacky with blood.

The corpse shot up with a start.

"Hello, Jessica," Manx said evenly. "Good morning."

The corpse looked around. "It's night time," She pointed out croakily.

Manx shrugged. "So it is."

Her flesh was dried and withered around her bones, skin brown. Her blonde hair looked out of place on her head, the skin stretched around her skull. Her eyes were gone, devoured by insects, but a nest of cream-coloured maggots writhed in her left socket. Her thin fingers gripped the sides of the coffin. She had decayed rather badly.

Jessica's eyeless sockets took in the crowded graveyard.

"What have you done?" She whispered hoarsely. "What have you done to me?"

"What have I done?" Manx asked in mock surprise. "Why, Jessica, I've just woken you up from your little nap. You've been asleep for too long."

"Oh god," Jess cried. A beetle scurried across her lips. "Oh god."

"No," Manx said cheerfully. "Just me."

Jess climbed out of the coffin. The satin lining was stained from where her putrefied flesh had dissolved into it.

She stood shakily next to her grave. In the trees above, the crows rustled their wings in impatience. His followers drew back from her, shivering in fear and disgust.

"Now then," Manx said, clapping his hands together. "You're looking a little worse for the wear, Jessica."

She didn't say anything. Something slithered down her throat, though, and he could see her flesh move like fields of wheat rustling when hidden animals run through them.

Manx pulled out a new handful of herbs, sarsaparilla and saw palmetto and evening primrose. He tossed them at Jess's feet, and with a snap of his fingers, the herbs began to burn. She stepped back in shock.

"Stay," He snapped. Clearing his throat, he began chanting in Latin. Smoke from the herb-fire began winding its way up Jessica's legs, pale and silvery. It caressed her and enveloped her and floated past her to disappear in the cloudy sky.

Jess's flesh began to knit back together. It swelled and stretched, skin smoothing out and paling into a healthier colour. The maggots began falling out of her eyes. Bugs burrowed their way out of her skin and her flesh healed behind them as they dropped to the ground, scurrying away to rebury themselves in the damp earth. The strands of tangled, dirty hair grew glossy and gold. She blinked, once, and when her eyelids peeled back clear blue eyes stared out at Manx.

After a few moments, the changes stopped. The fire burned itself out and Jess reached up to touch her face hesitantly.

"Excellent," Manx pronounced. "You don't look more than a day dead."

Slowly, Jess's hand slid down her face and throat to rest above her still heart. There was nothing there -- no beat, no pulse, no breath.

"I'm dead," She said quietly.

"Well, yes," Manx confirmed impatiently. "But you'd think you'd be used to it by now."

"Why did you bring me back?" She demanded.

Manx smiled cruelly. "Because, Jessica, I needed you."

"Why?" She asked. "What could you possibly need me for?"

A light rain began to fall, splattering the puddles of blood like coins dropping into a wishing well. The blood diluted and ran in rivers around the headstones.

"Well, Jessica," Manx explained. "What do you remember about Sam Winchester?"

* * *

The car was red and sleek and a decade shy of being on the cutting edge of cool. It slowed to a stop in front of Jess, headlights dim yellow in the darkness. The passenger window rolled down. Jess leaned into it, smiling without showing her teeth.

She'd been walking down the edge of the highway with her thumb out for the past six hours. If she hadn't been dead, she'd have been exhausted.

"You lookin' for a ride?" The driver of the red car was thirtysomething, with un-styled hair and an average face, and his voice held a calculated suaveness that fell a little flat. He was squinting in the darkness, trying to distinguish Jess's features.

"Yeah," Jess answered.

"Come on in," He waved her in with one hand, the other resting lightly on the steering wheel. She opened the door and sat down, not bothering with the seat-belt. He opened his mouth to say something than gave a coughing laugh instead.

"It's Haser. Ben Haser." He said with a smile, extending one hand.

_Bond. James Bond,_ Jess thought and laughed quietly.

"Jessica Moore. My friends call me Jess," Jess avoided the proffered hand and rested her fingertips lightly on his shoulder instead, imagining the feel of the cheap fabric of his collared shirt and the warm skin beneath it. Her fingertips ghosted over his shoulder then disappeared quickly.

"Jess. That's nice." His eyes followed the movement of her hand.

She nodded uncommunicatively, gazing ahead on the black highway. Ben cleared his throat nervously then put the car in gear. The car pulled onto the highway. Ben, Jess learned from a quick glance at the speedometer, drove a consistent five miles beneath the speed-limit.

"So, Jess..." He tried, fingers running nervously over the wheel as he spoke, "What brings you out onto a dark highway in the middle of the night?" He gave her a goofy smile. He seemed like a nice guy. Somebody with good credit and bad taste who was never, ever going to get anywhere spectacular with his life.

"I'm going to see an old friend of mine," Jess responded, eyes still on the road.

"Oh. And they couldn't give you a ride?"

Jess shook her head. "He doesn't know I'm coming."

"Ah. Lucky guy. I'd love to get a surprise from a girl like you," His gaze ran down her body, not quite able to make it out in the weak light, then snapped back onto the road.

Jess didn't say anything, and Ben carried on the conversation himself. He told her about his boring job pushing paper in Denver, his boring friends and his boring apartment and his boring life. Jess got the impression he hadn't had sex in a while.

". . .except for my cat, Clancy, of course. He's a handful, you know. He-- hey, what's wrong with your skin?" The car had passed by a lonely gas station, flooding it with fluorescent light.

"It's starting to decay again," Jess said calmly, not turning her head.

"It's--" Ben began.

"Ben," Jess cut him off. "I'm really sorry about this. But I need your car."

"What?" Ben turned to look at her, his brow furrowing in confusion. He was still smiling, though, all kinds of confused and kind and stupid and hoping to get lucky.

"I'm sorry," Jess said again, and she meant it. There was sympathy in her eyes as she watched the tarmac disappear beneath the car. She reached over with one hand and let her fingers settle over his, gripping the steering wheel.

"What are y--" Ben never got to finish. Still smiling his puzzled smile, his head careened back as Jess punched him in the jaw. Sam had taught her how to punch a lifetime ago, showing her how to curl her thumb over her knuckles, how to hit with force without swinging a wild hay-maker. If her hand hadn't been on the wheel, the car would have gone off the road, but she kept it steady down the straight highway.

Reflexively, Ben's foot pushed down on the gas pedal, and the speedometer slowly climbed. Before he could react to her punch, Jess's hand latched onto his throat. She squeezed his wind pipe, all the while watching the road.

Ben flailed. His feet kicked wildly and the speed of the car dropped. His arms were scrabbling in the air before they found purchase on her hand, trying desperately to pry her fingers off. He latched a hand on her wrist and the other reached out, clawing at her face.

Jess held on, unmoved. Slowly, she strangled him, constricting his throat, cutting off the air to his lungs. His eyes were wide open and staring at her. His gaze locked onto her face, desperately trying to make eye contact, to plead with her. Jess stared straight ahead.

He gaped like a fish gasping on dry land, face slowly purpling. Eventually, his thrashing slowed.

Jess continued squeezing even after he went completely limp. The car slowed to a snail's crawl. Finally, after an age, she peeled her hand off his bruised throat.

Jess swung one leg over to the driver's side and pressed lightly on the gas. She was half-sitting on Ben's body as she guided the car off the side of the road. She put it in park, then opened the door.

Ben's seat-belt was sticking and she had to fumble with it for a minute. Then she unceremoniously pushed Ben's body out, where it rolled and landed with a thud on the dirt. Jess settled into the driver's seat and adjusted her mirrors. She let the seat-belt hang limply beside her. Wasn't like she needed it. She pulled back onto the highway, slamming her foot on the gas. The engine rumbled eagerly.

She watched the silhouette of Ben's body disappear in the rear-view mirror. Idly, Jess imagined Ben's cat Clancy starving to death in his apartment, meowing for the thirtysomething clerical worker from Denver who would never come home.

Her eyes snapped back to the road. The speedometer climbed as the car gathered speed, her foot pressed flat to the floor, and she ignored it.

_I'm coming, babe. _Jess thought. _Don't worry, Sam. I'm coming._

_

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